


Come On-A My House

by 743ish



Series: A Home Game [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1950s, Baseball, Brooklyn, Canon divergence - Postwar, Cap Steve/Vintage Bucky, Disabled Character, First Kiss, M/M, Mechanic Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Prosthesis, Sexual Tension, Steve Rogers's Motorcycle, Technically not Shrunkyclunks, The Brooklyn Dodgers, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 08:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13807056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/743ish/pseuds/743ish
Summary: Captain America does not come to the Dodgers’ next home game.





	Come On-A My House

Captain America does not come to the Dodgers’ next home game.

It’s been four days since Rogers drank a beer in Bucky’s living room. Only four days, and Bucky knows it’s a long shot anyway. It doesn’t stop him from getting there early. He grabs a seat in roughly the same spot, under the big GEM SAFETY RAZORS sign, a few rows from the back.

It’s another gorgeous day. They’re playing the Cubs. The crowd isn't big because it's Tuesday, and the bleachers are mostly full of kids, now that school's out.

Bucky doesn’t get a snack, because his stomach has been queasy all morning. It lurches whenever he lets himself think about Rogers. He tries not to, but every so often he can't help it, and the memory comes rushing back in, knocking him off balance.

He half-watches the game. The Dodgers are bullshit today, can’t get a hit, can’t catch a fucking easy flyball. He reads his newspaper without retaining any of it, and then tears pieces off the page corners and drops them by his feet.

He scans the crowd, eyes on the entrance to the stands. At one point early on, a big blond guy arrives, and for a split second Bucky thinks his heart actually stops. But then the guy turns, and it’s not him, just a big dumb-looking side of beef, with the wrong hair and jaw and shoulders, the wrong eyes. No gentleness in his gait, no shyness. Nothing like him.

Bucky would almost think he'd dreamed the whole thing—the idea of it was totally absurd—if it weren't for the fact that he could still see him when he closed his eyes. Details, solid and not like a dream: his perfect skin and his half-smile from the sofa, the quirk of his eyebrow, his _smell._ His laugh. The palm of his hand. If it had been a dream, it was the realest one Bucky's ever had, and either way nothing had ever made him burn like this, just remembering.

He stays for the whole game out of stubbornness, to keep up the appearance that he was going to come anyway. And he _was._ He was.

On his way out of the stadium, he jams the newspaper into a garbage can with a little more force than necessary, but by the time he gets home he's feeling level again. What the hell was he expecting, anyway? He makes dinner, cleans up, reads a little, and goes to bed. It was always a long shot.

===

Two days later, there’s a picture in the _Times_ : Captain America meeting the troops in Korea.

===

The next game is rained out. Then the Dodgers go on the road for a week. They come back to play at Ebbets on a Monday, against Philadelphia. Bucky has plans to go with Mikey, since school’s out now, and Mikey stayed on the honor roll, and Becca's husband Joe doesn't get Mondays off. Bucky gets Mondays off whenever he wants, and he’s a good uncle; he pays Mikey’s 75 cents and gets him a hot dog and a soda and everything.

“Don't tell the others,” Bucky says. “They'll say I'm playing favorites.”

“I am your favorite, though,” says Mikey, his mouth full.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “So: don't tell the others.”

They get good seats, right in the middle row, close enough and high enough for a great view. Mikey loves baseball—he plays first base on the school team, and is as much of a Dodgers fan as anyone. He's at a good age to see a game with: none of the excitable chatter like when he was little, and he’s not old enough to prefer being with his friends, or a girl. He pays attention to the field, and Bucky does too.

About ten minutes into the first inning, Mikey sits up, cranes his neck over the heads in front of him and says “Wow! Uncle Bucky, look! It's Captain America!”

And there he is, and Bucky’s pulse jumps.

Rogers is near the entrance, surrounded by a group of kids. It looks like they caught him as he started up the bleacher steps. He’s signing something for one of them, and he smiles when he hands it back, but Bucky’s seen his real smile, and he’s close enough now to see that this isn’t it.

“Come on, Uncle— _Bucky_ , come _on_!” Mikey’s trying to haul him out of his seat by his elbow. “Let’s go meet him!”

“Mikey—let’s not—you don’t want to bother the guy,” Bucky tries, but Mikey’s already taken off down the steps, and Buck mutters _shit_ and stands up.

When he catches up, the kid is practically dancing in excitement. “You know him, right?” he says.

Bucky almost chokes. “What?”

“You know him, don’t ya? From the war?”

Oh. Right. “I never met him, bud,” he says, and the lie slides off his tongue nice and easy. “I just saw him once, that’s all.”

They join the crowd. It’s getting bigger as more people notice; it’s not just kids now, and everyone’s yelling and shoving things at Rogers and trying to shake his hand, and Bucky thinks maybe Captain America won’t make it to his seat this inning. He's handling the attention like a sheep handles quicksand: stuck and getting stucker. Jesus, Bucky doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The poor guy looks utterly bewildered.

Bucky feels like shit, standing there with the gawkers and the autograph-hunters like Rogers owes him something. Yeah, Bucky wanted to see him again. But not like this.

He sneaks another look at Rogers, who glances up at him at the same time, and their eyes meet. Rogers freezes and looks away quick, then clears his throat and focuses hard on the kid closest to him. Bucky feels like _such an asshole_.

And, oh there’s a thought—maybe Rogers didn't want to see _him_ again. At all. Fuck.

He tries to pull Mikey away. “Let’s go, come on.”

“No!" Mikey whines. “No, I wanna meet him!”

“Mike—”

But the kid is determined, and Bucky doesn’t want a scene. He sighs and looks at his shoes, and his stomach feels wretched, and then he hears Mikey say, “Hi, Captain America!”

Rogers smiles at him, and shakes his outstretched hand. “What’s your name, son?”

“Michael, Sir.”

“Good to meet you, Michael.”

“You, too! Can you sign my program?”

“Mikey,” says Bucky automatically, “say please.”

Rogers finally looks at him for more than a second. His eyes are—he looks worried _._ Bucky gives him a smile that he means as a _sorry_ and Rogers’ eyes slide slowly back down to look at Mikey, and he takes the program and says, “This your dad?”

Bucky snorts gently and Mikey says “Nope! That’s my Uncle Bucky.”

Rogers smiles and signs his name. He says, “You’re lucky. I never had an uncle to take me to games.”

“He brings me every summer. Right, Uncle Bucky?”

“That’s right, pal.”

Rogers hands the program back to Mikey and takes another from the next kid, but then he pauses without signing it and squints at Bucky.

“Is Uncle Bucky playing hooky?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows and nods. “Sure am.”

“From what?”

“Uh,” says Bucky. There are people jammed right up next to them on either side, jostling. He should go. “You know Barnes’ Garage, up on Fulton?”

Rogers shakes his head.

“Well, that’s me. It was my dad’s, now it’s mine.”

“You, uh,” Rogers stammers. “You do the work yourself?” He doesn't look at Bucky's bad shoulder, but that's what he means.

“Some. I got two guys in the shop, they do most of it. I help ‘em out.”

“You do bikes at all?”

The kid whose program Rogers isn’t signing is getting impatient, but Rogers just stands there and looks at Bucky. _Only_ at Bucky. It makes Bucky's face hot.

“Bikes?” he croaks.

Rogers nods. “I got a K-model Harley.”

Of course he does; everyone’s seen the pictures. Bucky bobs his head. “We do bikes, yeah.”

“Good to know.” He keeps staring, like he’s forgotten how to move.

Bucky stares back for a second, struck dumb by it all. Then he remembers where he is and blinks. “Okay, okay. Say thank you, Mike.”

Mikey yells, “Thank you, Sir!” and darts back up the steps.

As Bucky moves away, Rogers says, “Good to meet you, Uncle Bucky.” He smiles, and he looks a little nervous, a little hopeful.

Bucky smiles back and lets himself feel a little hopeful, too.

“Likewise, Captain,” he says, and walks back up to his seat.

Rogers doesn't get to sit down until the bottom of the first inning. He’s just one row behind where Buck and Mikey are sitting. Bucky sneaks a look over his shoulder: he’s right on the aisle, and he _still_ has people bugging him for an autograph, and he’s smiling miserably and obliging them. The sun glows on his golden hair and shows off his ridiculous shoulders and his pretty eyelashes, and Bucky doesn’t realize he’s staring until Rogers glances up, right at him.

He looks away immediately, his heart kicking. He waits a little while, bouncing his knee, oblivious to the game. When he takes another look back, Rogers is alone, and he’s still looking at Bucky.

Bucky’s face goes hot again. He turns up the corner of his mouth, though, just a little, just to see what Rogers will do. Rogers swallows visibly and ducks his head and blinks away, and _shit_. Bucky is a fucking goner.

When the game finishes, Bucky follows Mikey to the exit. Captain America is surrounded by another crowd of kids, and he doesn't see them leave.

===

It’s a day later, and Bucky is working on an ancient Oldsmobile, thinking of closing up, when Rogers shows up at the shop.

“Hey, Buck!” Carl shouts from the door.

“Yeah!”

“Uh,” Carl says, closer now, and he sounds out of breath. “ _Captain America_ is out front asking for you?”

Bucky fumbles his wrench and swears.

“I told him we were closing up—”

“No!” Bucky yells. “It's okay. I'll be right there.” He rolls out from under the car and struggles ungracefully to his feet. The prosthetic is necessary for work, but moving around with it is always a pain in the ass.

He makes himself wait a full minute before he goes to the door.

Outside, he squints in the sun. Rogers is there, standing next to a beautiful black Harley-Davidson Model K. He lifts his chin in greeting when he sees Bucky.

“Heard you work on bikes,” he calls.

Bucky walks over to him, and Rogers smiles his half-smile and just _watches_ him walk. Bucky becomes painfully aware that he’s wearing shitty overalls and a shitty fake arm, and his hair’s probably a bird's nest, and he's filthy from his ears to his boots.

Rogers, on the other hand, is glowing, movie-star perfect; he might be trying for inconspicuous, but the sunglasses and leather jacket don't do a thing to hide him. He extends his hand for a shake, and Bucky has to wipe his hand on his belly a couple of times before taking it.

“We’ll fix anything with a motor,” he says, and points to the bike. “Especially if it’s as nice as that.”

Rogers runs his hand over the seat. “Can always use an honest man to keep her running. It's been a while since I had her looked at. Making some funny noises.”

The bike is pristine; it looks brand new. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh. He ignores Carl, who’s eavesdropping blatantly from the door.

“We'll take a look.”

“I appreciate it.”

“It’ll be a treat for the boys. This neighborhood, they don’t get much chance to work on anything faster than a second-hand Buick.”

“But,” Rogers says, “I’d want you to do it.” He flicks his big old baby blues up to Bucky's face, like he's worried Bucky’ll refuse.

Bucky laughs instead, and looks at him sideways. “You’re _asking_ for the one-armed mechanic? I take three times as long.”

“I'm not in a hurry,” Rogers says. “Plus, I don’t know those other guys.”

“You don’t know me, either,” Bucky says.

Rogers gives him that look again, holding Bucky's eyes and smiling halfway like he knows a secret.

“Yeah, I do.”

He just says it, out loud, like it’s the truth. It makes Bucky want to turn away again, to hide his face, anything to feel less exposed. But he stands his ground and looks back at Rogers frankly. Because—it is the truth. And Bucky knows better than to let that go. He smiles.

“Okay, then.”

He takes Rogers to the office and writes up the work order with his own name at the top. He copies down Rogers’ contact information and carefully doesn't react to the address; it makes sense for Captain America to live right on the Park. It makes no fucking sense at all for him to live on the Park and bring his brand-new luxury machine to a shitty body shop in Stuyvesant, but Buck doesn’t comment on that part, either.

Carl shouts his goodbye from the front. Rogers hovers.

“I’m just closing up,” Bucky says. He swallows and glances up. “I'd offer you a ride to the station, but I didn’t bring the car.”

“It's okay,” says Rogers. “I was planning to walk.”

Bucky nods, and fights a grin. He cleans up his station as quickly as he can, and washes at the sink. It's a slow, frustrating process, using the fake arm to clean the real one, but he doesn't let himself get shy about it: the prosthetic is ugly and clunky and Bucky spends half his life swearing at the fucking thing, but it's a part of him, and it doesn't do any good to hide it. If it's going to scare someone off, better to know right away.

But Rogers just leans on the wall and watches without comment, and when Bucky looks over at him, he smiles softly. Bucky smiles back, and doesn't ask why he's waiting.

He turns out the lights and lets Rogers out before locking up. They head out to the street, and there's a moment when Bucky turns left, toward home, that he thinks maybe Rogers won't follow. But he does, and Bucky's heart thumps, because the closest subway station is in the other direction.

They walk half a block in silence. Bucky can’t take it.

“So, how you been?” he says.

“Okay. Busy,” Rogers says. He sighs. “I haven't been able to get to a game like I wanted.”

“You got to one yesterday,” Bucky says.

Rogers’ face falls. “That didn’t go how I planned.” He rubs his neck. “And I wanted to catch the Chicago game last week, too. But I had to go away on short notice.”

“I saw. In the paper.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry,” Rogers says, very softly.

Bucky looks at him in surprise. The guy has his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched; shit, he thinks Bucky’s _mad_ about it.

“They, uh, asked me to—I really can’t say no, when they ask. I didn’t want...” He trails off and shakes his head. “Sorry.”

His deep, earnest voice makes Bucky’s insides tender. He frowns. “You don’t _owe_ —” He weaves closer to Rogers, and lets their shoulders brush together. “You got stuff to do, right? I didn’t expect…” he starts, but he doesn’t know how to end that sentence. He shrugs. “Not everyone can play hooky whenever they want.”

Rogers’ face slides into a wide smile.

“You didn’t miss much, honestly,” Bucky says. “They played like shit.”

“Yeah, I saw. In the paper.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to grin. Rogers watches him, his own smile still lingering, and they stare at each other, too long.

Jesus. _Much_ too long. Being right out on the street makes Bucky chicken; he drops his eyes. But Rogers just keeps looking, and Bucky feels it like a touch. His skin tingles with it, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

===

Inside the house, Bucky offers Rogers a beer, like last time. When Rogers takes it, he stays in the kitchen, leaning on the door frame, his gaze even. Bucky leans on the counter and drinks his own, and Rogers’ eyes still don't move from his.

Bucky exhales hard and shakes his head at him. “You're crazy.”

Rogers doesn’t seem fazed. “I am?”

“Yes!” Bucky says. “You can't just—you can’t just _show up_ places! With your brand-new bike, asking for a _tune up_ , and then walk around in front of everybody—” He waves his bottle helplessly.

“What?” says Rogers.

Bucky huffs again. His back is sweaty, and Rogers keeps smiling, and now all he can do is look away and shrug. “You can’t— _look_ at me like that.”

Rogers doesn't change his expression one bit. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky takes another drink and lowers his voice to a mutter. “People are gonna...”

He can't finish. Jesus Christ, Barnes, people are gonna _what_? Know? What is there to know? Nothing at all has even happened, for God’s sake.

And yet, everything’s happened. It’s true for them both, Bucky’s sure. It's just that it feels dangerous to put into words; it feels so much bigger than any words Bucky can think to use.

Still, it’s written on Rogers’ face. He’s not imagining that. The way Rogers looks at him burns right through to Bucky’s core, and _anyone_ could see it, if they looked. It’d be visible from the moon.

Rogers gives a little shrug. “I don't know any other way to look at you.”

A shot of heat surges through Bucky, and panic edges in again. He escapes by turning and rinsing his bottle in the sink. The rush of the tap is loud against the metal, so he doesn't hear Rogers move, but as soon as he puts the bottle down, there is a hand on his forearm.

Bucky stills. Rogers’ touch is gentle, and he slides his hand down to Bucky’s wrist, and steps closer.

“Do you want me to stop looking at you?” he says.

Bucky shakes his head, once. He keeps his eyes down, lets his hand be turned palm-down. Rogers runs his fingers over the back of Bucky’s hand, then threads them in between Bucky’s fingers smoothly. Bucky doesn’t move. He looks at their hands joined together in front of him, resting on the counter, and he stays looking at them as he feels Rogers shift his weight, and he focuses on them hard as Rogers lays his other hand lightly on the small of Bucky’s back.

He’s warm, and although his hands are steady, Bucky can feel him trembling slightly. They stand there for a moment. Rogers’ breath is in his ear and Bucky can’t move.

It’s so stupid; he _wants_ this. He’s not some blushing virgin. He shouldn’t be nervous at all, but the weight of Rogers’ gaze is so much more overwhelming than anyone’s touch has ever been. Bucky has to take a long, steadying breath to get up the guts to face him. The angle is awkward, since Rogers is still standing mostly behind him. Bucky is still turned toward the sink, gripping the lip of the counter hard, and he has to twist his neck to see him.

This close, his eyes are darker. They’re concerned, searching Bucky's face, like asking a question. He's hesitating, after all this; he's doubting it. It makes Bucky's own doubt dissolve. He wants to tell him: _yes._

So in the end it's Bucky who moves first. He leans in close, his lips near Rogers,’ noses touching, breathing and waiting. Rogers is looking at Bucky's face, his head tipped down toward him, and this time when Bucky moves, Rogers follows him. They take their first taste, quick, tentative; they pull back enough to gasp a breath, and then chase each other’s lips again, and it's almost nothing, barely anything, except for the touch of their joined hands, and their quickened breathing, and the new taste.

Bucky turns to him fully then, and the next kiss is like a bullseye. It gets him right _there,_ center mass. Rogers tastes like he smells—like home, like _home_ —and Bucky inhales sharply and closes his eyes. It’s another long shot, but he hopes with every part of himself that he can feel like home for Rogers, too.

Rogers lets go of Bucky’s hand and cups his neck instead, and Bucky slides his own hand up to Rogers’ shoulder. They take another pause—dark eyes in the bright kitchen—and then Rogers takes Bucky's face in both hands and leans into him, pushes him against the counter and kisses him hungrily. They kiss, and it’s urgent, their bodies pressed; and when they part again, they smile, and look their fill, and breathe, and breathe, and breathe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Rosemary Clooney song released in 1951, in which she invites someone home and offers, among other things, to feed them plums :D
> 
> Disclaimer: I’m taking huge liberties with the ‘52 Dodgers home game schedule. The story is not historically accurate in that area.
> 
> Huge thanks to my wonderful beta reader, [Dreadnought](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadnought/pseuds/Dreadnought)
> 
> Also thank you to [newsbypostcard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard) for the very useful feedback on my first draft
> 
> Honourable mention to the lovely [praximeter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimario/pseuds/praximeter), for telling me to write a sequel in the first place :)


End file.
